


Memento Mori

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 01:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13470690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dean drinks to remember.





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo it's still Dean's birthday here, so I'mma post it. Hope you like it. Unbeta'd written in one sitting. I suck at writing.

**D** ean drinks.

 

He drinks to remember - remember that time is different here than it is in hell; that it hasn't been a decade, only a month. 

That his flesh and his bones and his blood are mortal. His body is mortal, it's not going to be healed for the next day to come. 

 

His inebriation makes everything – people, places, senses - _everything_  – real - not an illusion, or anything of sorts. He's past that, all of that – hell; the mark; being a demon – these decades are past him, with hopefully less to come.

He drinks to reminisce it all. Decades of pain and agony, pain that never left. Not only his memories, but his bones and his blood.

The same pain stills flows in his body, and he can't help but smile at the nostalgia.

His memories are his home. His pain – his safe haven. He welcomes them, embraces them and lets himself be embraced by them. How familiar and oh-so-perfect they are.

 

He drinks to wash away the guilt, and now he's embraced by an ocean – of agony, and loathing. So he doesn't fight – he lets himself drown and breaths in, and just as he's about to touch the bottom of that ocean, he's no longer there.

He stands on something – it's too dark to see; but he can see his surroundings – greens and browns and blues, and albeit small,  it's breathtaking.

He sees a figure, but can't make it up – he can only feel strong pull and yet pushing with the same force.

He wants them closer.

He wants them as far as possible.

They're so close, and he knows, he _knows_ , but he denies it, because this… is too much. Too painful. Tormenting, throbbing.

And then they fall through the surface, cold, liquid, _pure,_ only hear a breaking sound, one that he knows all too well.

 

Skeletons all over – some almost whole, and the rest is bones scattered everywhere.

He walks, each step crashes more bones, and the skulls – empty eye sockets and broken jaws – grin at him, sardonic and mocking.

And then he sees the figure again – and it's getting closer, closer, less than an arm away; and it's embracing him.

 

 _Mortui vivios docent_  he hears in his head, The dead teach the living.

It hits him, sharp, pounding.

All those he couldn't save. Because he wasn't fast enough, strong enough.

Wasn't _good enough._

 

He opens his eyes, and looks at his phone screen.

January 24th.

 

He toys with still-cold bottle in his hand.

“Happy birthday, me.” he sighs, defeated. 

 

He's got nothing else to do.

So Dean drinks.


End file.
